Old Habits, Twisted
by Hoodoo
Summary: No nice, cuddly Snape inside! Dark ending.
1. 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable. For entertainment purposes only.  
  
Notes: This is similar to another posted story, Old Habits. This version, however, has a decidedly darker ending. I'm not quite sure which Snape I like better.  
  
Enjoy!  
  
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Old Habits, Twisted  
  
  
  
Because of his particularly vile mood, the students in Professor Snape's Potions classes were more subdued than normal. There was very little noise from the dungeon room: the grinding of mortar and pestle, small choppings of various herbs, the occasional 'pop!' of a bubble breaking free of a thick liquid. The students themselves cast each other worried looks, but no one-not even arrogant Draco Malfoy-tempted Snape's wrath by whispering.  
  
The silence and tension suited the Professor fine. Black thoughts tumbled through his head as he stalked between the cauldrons and the children huddled around them. He barely realized he muttered wickedly to himself.  
  
"Um . . .sir? P-professor Snape, s-sir?" A tentative voice broke through his concentration.  
  
"What is it?!" he screeched, turning on his heel, looking like a great bird of prey. His black robes swinging behind him added to the illusion.  
  
All the students jumped and watched with wide eyes. Neville Longbottom, who'd been the one to dare speak aloud, seemed to shrink under Snape's piercing gaze.  
  
"I'm s-sorry, sir, Professor Sn-snape," he stuttered, "but . . . it's . . . time for lunch."  
  
Snape's eyes glittered. "Ten points from Gryffindor," he hissed, "for Neville Longbottom being presumptuous." Neville winced. Snape ignored it and continued. "All of you-out of my sight! I want a written report of the differences in the ingredients and techniques of voodoo potions and our own! Now get out!"  
  
In record time the students had cleaned up, packed their supplies, and hurried out the door.  
  
Professor Snape pinched the bridge of his nose and walked back to his desk. He didn't remove his hand as he sat down.  
  
How could they-! Snape's brooding rushed back to him in force. Did no one in this school understand, did no one comprehend anything he had to say?! He had long ago given up the notion that anyone cared for his opinion, but to blatantly ignore it? To laugh at him?  
  
When Headmaster Dumbledore mentioned he had hired a guest teacher, Snape had protested immediately. He remembered the way the rest of the staff rolled their eyes and shook their heads when he did.  
  
"Do you have to object to every new teacher Albus hires?" Professor McGonagall said stiffly.  
  
"After all these years, it's tradition!"  
  
Several of them present covered their mouths to smother chuckles, even as Snape glanced angrily around the room. Turning back to Dumbledore, he noticed that infuriating hint of a smile on the Headmaster's face. Snape took a deep breath to steady himself.  
  
"Severus," Dumbledore said, "it's only for Muggle Studies, not the Defense Against the Dark Arts class. And she's only a guest. She shan't be staying for the entire school year."  
  
And he could protest no more, not without more laughter.  
  
But deep in his heart, Snape knew that once she was here, she wouldn't leave. The students would find her fascinating, the staff would adore her, and he would-  
  
"Hey there, Big Bad." A voice interrupted his silent tirade.  
  
Snape sucked in his breath and snapped his head to the doorway. The woman there leaned against the frame easily, a faint amusement playing at her lips. It reminded him, furiously, of Dumbledore's secret smile.  
  
He sneered back.  
  
Without thinking his actions through, acting on his first impulse, Snape stood up and stomped across the room. He brushed passed the woman roughly, refusing to look her in the eye.  
  
"I'm late for lunch," he snarled, and began making his way up the stone stairs.  
  
"You can't avoid me forever, Severus," she called after him.  
  
Internally he flinched but made no indication of it for her to see. In a second he was up the stairs and out of her sight. 


	2. 2

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The rest of the day was no better than the morning. With his mind filled with murderous and angry thoughts, Snape was especially harsh on his students and himself. His half-under-his-breath mutterings, instead of fading, increased. In the back of his mind he wished to be so rabid Dumbledore would dismiss him.  
  
Thoughts of that nature made him cringe.  
  
Finally, his day was done.  
  
Carefully he gathered up and replaced his personal artifacts from the classroom to his office. The routine of it, sorting, straightening, and inventorying, calmed him a bit. He took a second to think over the next week's lessons. That focussed him a little more, and he locked his office behind him feeling more composed than throughout the rest of the day.  
  
Swiftly he made his way through the corridors to the teachers wing. He had a vague idea where she was staying, and didn't care. As long as it was far enough away that he didn't have to see her or hear her, all was well. The weekend stretched before him, he simply had to avoid her.  
  
Snape whispered an unlocking spell on the iron latch of his door, and entered. He sighed with relief, thinking he should have a bath, and then a long sleep. He'd brought a special potion from his office to be assured his slumber would be dreamless.  
  
"Man. It takes you forever to get up here. Classes have been done for forty five minutes."  
  
The semi-peace he'd managed to achieve evaporated. Black rage again filled him. He glared at her, comfortably lounging in front of the fire.  
  
"What are you doing?! How did you get in here?!"  
  
"Those Muggles. They come up with the most amazing stuff." Idly she fingered a set of lock-picking tools.  
  
He watched those artistic fingers hold up one instrument after another. A lock of hair escaped from behind her ear, shining copper in the fire light. Snape shook his head, rattling loose the anger again. "How dare you invade my personal quarters?!"  
  
"Big Bad, can't you at least be polite?" she asked in reply.  
  
"WHAT?!"  
  
"Oh, come on. You know how," she continued. Mimicking his voice, she said to herself, "Why, hello, Celeste. It's been so long since I've seen you. How have you been? Very well, thank you. And yourself, Severus?"  
  
His anger made him tremble. His normally pallid cheeks were decorated with bright spots of color. He took deep painful breaths and crossed the room in only a few strides. Snape grabbed her upper arms and yanked her to her feet.  
  
Celeste yelped.  
  
"Get out," he spit, literally, at her.  
  
Face to face with him, his pupils dilated and his pants shaking them both, Celeste relented. She dropped her eyes.  
  
"I . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything. I found this-" she managed to pull a small bit of paper from her robe, he glanced at it, "- and it got me thinking. About old times. I thought you might want it."  
  
Snape released her. Her arms felt bruised.  
  
He looked drained. "Get out," he managed to croak, refusing to look at her again.  
  
The paper fluttered from her hand. Celeste slowly made her way to the door. She paused before going through.  
  
"Take care of yourself, Big Bad," she whispered. "I'll . . . see you around."  
  
"Don't call me that," Snape said under his breath.  
  
But she was gone.  
  
His head feeling stoned, Snape's knees agreed and gave out. On the floor he found the slip of paper-a small photograph, actually. A photograph of Celeste. And himself, long ago and far away. Laughing. Kissing. Happy.  
  
A tortured cry twisted its way from his throat, and sobs choked him.  
  
Try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to crush the picture. 


	3. 3

Note: Lines, paragraphs, etc., enclosed by // and \\ are flashbacks. Sorry! I can't format worth shit. ~ Hoodoo ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Instead of the bath, instead of the dreamless sleep he'd promised himself, Snape sat in front of the blazing fire, staring blankly into the flames. The house elves had brought a never-ending bottle of wine from the cellars at his request. He had drunk too many glasses to remember the count. His hand was too unsteady now to pour more.  
  
Clumsily he picked up the photograph again and blearily watched the couple within it. Celeste-in-the-picture took that moment to kiss Snape-in-the- picture soundly on the mouth. Snape-in-the-picture grinned.  
  
As it had many times before, the photograph lazily floated to the floor, no matter how hard he threw it.  
  
So many memories . . . Snape covered his face and pulled his hair in an effort to pull them from his mind. But that tactic refused to work.  
  
// . . . a young child, black haired and black eyed, awkward and shy. The sting of bruised ribs as he took each breath. Approached by a neighbor girl as he sat in the garden, kicking at gnomes.  
  
Come over, she asked.  
  
No.  
  
Come on! At least go inside, it's raining and cold.  
  
A shudder passed through him at the thought of returning to his own house, where it was even colder.  
  
Then you have no choice. Come over. My mom insists.  
  
So he had. Frightened at what may be behind other people's doors, knowing too well the shouting and beatings behind his, he followed her slowly.  
  
What a difference! A Muggle father who collected Muggle record albums and read stories to them, a witch mother who baked and made them drink large glasses of fortified milk for some nutrition with their cookies.  
  
They played, they laughed, they sang along to the funny Muggle songs her father had on the jukebox. They had adventures outside, climbing trees to find bird's nests and following the creek. They acted out the fairy tales read to them.  
  
(Her favorite was Little Red Riding Hood. She, of course, was the girl- what did it matter that her cloak was green instead of red?-and he played the wolf. Several times they pretended it but changed the ending, so the Wolf wasn't split open and he and Little Red Riding Hood lived happily ever after . . ..)\\  
  
She almost always called him 'Big Bad' after that, and always smiled when she said it.  
  
//Some times they even played outside in the rain, because deep down inside, he really liked the rain. It was so clean, especially after a thrashing. They came regularly, and in the back of his mind he knew it was because he had fun with her. He decided he didn't care.  
  
He wished it would never end, but like most good things in his life, it did. Her father was transferred to America. She was leaving.  
  
The day before she left he told her in a fevered way he wanted Little Red Riding Hood to be real, the way they made it real, with a happy ending together forever. She grinned fondly at that, and teased that he would have to become a werewolf for the fantasy to be true. He thought if possible, to make it real, he would.  
  
The day she left his father beat him into a concussion. He never saw her go . . .\\  
  
Snape lifted the wine bottle and stared at the amount left, vaguely wondering if his liver could possibly handle another dose of alcohol. If only another swallow would block the recall his brain insisted on!  
  
Then, he thought, it couldn't hurt.  
  
Another swig burned his throat.  
  
It didn't help.  
  
//. . . she wrote to him, an owl at least once every other month. Her letters were full of the strangeness of America, but the excitement she had there too. He rarely wrote in reply: what could he tell her? His beatings were more frequent? He had learned to be silent and sly, to avoid any attention? That with no escape to her home he was slowly but surely being educated in the ways of sarcasm and hate?  
  
Then came the wondrous day of his acceptance to Hogwarts. He had gone straight to the Owl Post and sent a quick note-written in trembling penmanship, he was so ecstatic-to her, to tell her of the miracle.  
  
And her reply, with it's gentle scolding that of course he'd be accepted, what did he expect? and a post script that she'd been accepted too, wasn't that incredible?! They should meet in London to gather school supplies together . . ..\\  
  
Snape groaned. "But you didn't meet her in London, did you?" a low voice asked in the back of his mind. "Your father saw to that."  
  
"Shut up!" he shouted to the empty room.  
  
//. . . his father saw to that. When he caught wind that his son was going to meet that half Muggle girl, he told him once and for all it was beneath a Snape to associate with shit. He would beat that into his boy, or kill him trying.  
  
He never made his appointment to meet her in Diagon Alley. On the Hogwarts Express he managed to find an empty compartment. He didn't remove the hood from his head, even alone. He had heard the whispers of the other students as he silently pushed passed them, and knew instinctively unpleasant rumors were being spread of him.  
  
Sternly he told himself it didn't matter.  
  
Minutes after the lunch cart passed his compartment another knock, more frantic, rattled the door.  
  
Don't answer and they'll go away.  
  
But the handle turned and she stepped inside.  
  
She was overjoyed to find him, and so worried because he hadn't shown up like he'd promised and why won't he talk or push back the hood? Wasn't he happy to see her?  
  
She sat beside him and squeezed his hand, and insisted that he turn to her. Reluctantly he complied.  
  
She gasped at the black eyes and broken nose. Amazingly, she cried for him. It startled him a bit, her tears; he'd lost the ability to cry ages ago. Her fingers gently stroked his discolored cheeks, and soothed his swollen split lip.  
  
He leaned against her, basking her compassion, and feeling that now, maybe, things would again be good . . .\\  
  
He sneered at his own naiveté.  
  
// . . . she held his hand tightly during the Sorting, until he was called and placed into the Slytherin house . . .\\  
  
He never told her he'd crossed his fingers when she took the seat, begging silently she'd be placed with him. He never told her about the sharp pang of disappointment as she made her way to the Ravenclaw table.  
  
//. . . they had classes together, of course. And they always studied together when the library was mostly empty. And later, in sixth year, when he began to realize she was attractive, they stole quick hungry kisses in dark alcoves.  
  
But by then he had gained many Slytherin traits and knew without a doubt his life would be very difficult if his House learned of his passion for her. It was already brutal enough with those bloody Gryffindor Marauders hating him.  
  
She didn't understand why he became more cautious around her. She declared she didn't care what anyone else thought. He couldn't explain why he was in such a delicate situation. He wanted more than anything to be with her, but to defy Lucius Malfoy was suicide. With many of the Slytherin house joining in support of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, he felt he had little choice.  
  
His choice had been made, in fact, before graduation and the farewell ball. When Lucius had promised him he could have his revenge on the Marauders, on his father, on whomever he chose, he agreed.  
  
The decision wavered while they were dancing. He realized, with a start, it was one of the only times in their seven years they'd been seen in public together. She hadn't lied; she didn't care that people were pointing and gawking at them. She pressed against him comfortably and smiled up at him.  
  
It gave him the strength to tell Lucius no, he changed his mind.  
  
For several months after leaving Hogwarts they traveled. He was content to simply be with her as she decided to pursue Muggle Studies. They had good times together. He was incredulous he could reach out and touch or hold her whenever he wished . . .\\  
  
Intoxicated with the wine and fumes from the fire, Snape's thoughts became more tattered. He could almost imagine the feel of her against him, like so many years ago. His throat ached.  
  
//. . . she wanted to take a job in America. She had left ahead of him, leaving him to finish their business in Britain . . .  
  
. . .he learned his father was sick, dying; she wanted him to go back. Make amends. Feeling forgiving, he had gone. His father spit in his face.  
  
Then he only felt foolish.  
  
Then Lucius contacted him, reminding him of his earlier agreement. Lucius had whispered he understood the lust for a woman, but men thought so much clearer without their influence. Wondered aloud if he'd reconsidered . . .  
  
. . . still smarting from his father's latest rejection, he agreed . . .  
  
. . . the horror of standing before Voldemort, the agony of the Dark Mark branded into his forearm . . .  
  
. . . the more twisted agony knowing he could never ask her to join them, that he'd lost her . . .  
  
. . . the odd relief that his father had died before he had used the Unforgivable Curse against him as he'd been ordered . . .  
  
. . . the emptiness beside him as he slept . . .  
  
. . . the sweet knowledge she was somewhat safe for now, across the ocean . . .  
  
. . . the painful comprehension that his decision separated them irreparably, that he could never be close to her again . . .  
  
. . . the self-hatred and loathing that consumed him more day by day . . . \\  
  
The fireplace held almost nothing but embers now. Snape's head throbbed and he was nauseous. The familiar feeling of self-pity was stronger than usual. It was all Celeste's fault. She had to return, and force him to deal with the torturous memories locked in his head. That simple power she held over him filled him with a fury that bordered on madness.  
  
He had to see her, confront her, right now.  
  
Unsteadily Snape got to his feet. He stumbled to the door and out into the hall. 


	4. 4

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A crashing, banging at her door shocked Celeste from a sound sleep.  
  
"Damn poltergeist!" she swore, and covered her head with a pillow to try and block the noise. It worked only a moment, until enraged shouts accompanied the banging.  
  
She sat up in bed. Unless Peeves had become an expert mimic, the person at her door was Snape! With the uproar he was making, it didn't seem he minded that the entire corridor would awaken. Quickly she hurried from the bed to the door, pausing only long enough to throw on a dressing robe over her night clothes. With a strength she didn't know she possessed, Celeste flung the heavy oak door open.  
  
"Celeste!" Snape roared, and lurched drunkenly into her room.  
  
She helped him to the chaise lounge in front of the hearth. In two movements, she locked the door and started a fire.  
  
"You're smashed," she told him dryly.  
  
"No shit," he slurred back. "I came here to . . . to tell you. How I-"  
  
"First you need sobered up. Then you can tell me what was so important that you felt the need to make a tanked spectacle of yourself in the middle of the night."  
  
She left him for a moment. When she returned, she forced two small tablets into one of his hands and a glass of water into the other.  
  
"Wass?"  
  
"I'm no potions master, Severus, but I can do some things. Extra special aspirin. Take them both and you'll feel better."  
  
With no hesitation he swallowed both pills. He didn't use the water. Celeste sighed and settled on the floor in front of the chaise to wait. It was dull watching the flames dance, so she began talking to fill the silence.  
  
"You know, I've missed you, Big Bad," she started. "I found that photo as I packed to come back here, and it got me thinking. About what we had. About how I was the one who made you come back to England to see your father, and maybe if you hadn't, Lucius Malfoy wouldn't have found you again. And then maybe you wouldn't have been tempted back to the Death Eaters . . .."  
  
Celeste paused and glanced up at him. Flickering shadows from the fire skipped across his features. Even in the dim lighting it was obvious he was oblivious to her soliloquy.  
  
She turned back to the fire and continued.  
  
"I didn't believe it at first, you know. Even though you didn't return and didn't contact me, I refused to believe it. I almost came back to look for you. My friends wouldn't let me. It was safer in America.  
  
"Eventually I knew it was true. You'd joined You-Know-Who."  
  
She choked a bit at that, as if the pain was as fresh now as it had been then. After a deep breath she continued.  
  
"I still got all the newspapers. Your name was cleared and I was ecstatic. I'd never lost hope for you. I heard you'd gotten a teaching position here. I wanted to write to you, but it had been so long I didn't know how. And you didn't write either. That made my friends happy, at least. Everyone says, once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater."  
  
She looked up at him again to see if the drug had affected him yet. The shadows still flicked on his face, making the hostility in his face seem greater. In a swift movement, his hand entwined itself in her hair. Celeste gasped as he yanked her head back, exposing her throat.  
  
Snape's voice, silky smooth in contrast to the hate twisting his appearance, informed her, "Dear Celeste, they were right." 


	5. 5

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Spiraling feelings of horror consumed Celeste. She was stunned, incapable of struggling.  
  
"It might have been best to not have helped me sober up," Snape said conversationally even as he used her hair to pull her up on the chaise lounge with him. "Left on my own, I probably would have passed out without ever being able to articulate my fury. I'd have woken with a hangover and more guilt."  
  
It was amazing, Celeste thought wildly, he keeps his voice so soft while he looks so savage.  
  
"Quite possibly," he mused, "none of this would have transpired."  
  
Frantically Celeste mentally explored her options. They were few. She fumbled with a robe pocket.  
  
"You can't comprehend the hate-" Snape had continued, until he noticed her reaching into the pocket. He gave her hair a twist, she cried out, and he laughed. "I'm not stupid, even if I was drunk, dearest. You left your wand over on the side table by the door. Not very convenient, if you need to protect yourself."  
  
But she found her prize and pulled it-a small canister-out.  
  
At this Snape scoffed. The next second he howled, gagging, furiously wiping his stinging eyes as she shot him squarely in the face with pepper spray. He rolled off the lounge in agony.  
  
"Those Muggles come up with the most amazing stuff!" screamed Celeste. "You prick! I'm getting Dumbledore down here right now!"  
  
Her threat was made less by the fact she didn't trust her legs to carry her to the door. She watched Snape twist from pain on the floor, moaning, for a minute or two before she stood shakily and carefully began her way across the room.  
  
The few minutes she sat, however, gave Snape enough time to whisper half a Cooling Charm on his own face. Although the burning was still present, it wasn't agonizing enough to stop him from bellowing, "No you don't!" and grabbing her robe, tripping her.  
  
Celeste fell and only barely caught herself from slamming into the stone floor. The impact reverberated through her, knocking the wind from her.  
  
As she lay in a heap, attempting to return to normal breathing, Snape crawled next to her. He kept a hand on her while he did, even though she was incapable of retaliating.  
  
Reaching her head, he forced her to her back and sneered down on her. Celeste made an effort to struggle away. He laughed aloud and pinned her arms above her head and her thrashing legs with his own.  
  
The look on his face was indescribable; on top of the rage etched in his features the pepper spray bloodshot his eyes and caused his nose to run. He didn't seem to notice.  
  
"Severus-Severus, stop this," Celeste begged. She was only vaguely aware she was weeping.  
  
"Severus?" he challenged. "Whatever happened to Big Bad? Too scary now that it's true, I think."  
  
"Why are you doing this?!"  
  
He ignored her question. "Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. Everyone knows that. Once you offer yourself to the Dark Lord, you become his. Body and soul."  
  
"That's not true!" she sobbed. "I don't believe it, Dumbledore didn't-"  
  
Snape's hand cracked her face hard enough to split her lip. "Don't mention his name!" he screamed. His breath came in sharp pants.  
  
For a second, the only sounds in the room were her uneven sobs. Snape glared at her through black eyes still smarting from the spray. When it became clear she wouldn't speak again, he smiled secretly as though a pleasant thought occurred to him.  
  
The transformation in his face was terrifying. The unreasonable anger was replaced with calm. His eyes lost their blaze, although they were still unreadable. Celeste choked on her fear.  
  
"Dearest," he cooed, "just what was your plan tonight, when I found you trespassing my private chambers?"  
  
She swallowed. "I . . . I . . .."  
  
He silenced her with a finger on her bloody mouth. "I believe I already know the answer. Hoping, perhaps, that we could recapture what we had so many years ago? To fall into each other's arms, cry together, end up in bed making passionate love throughout the night? Hmm?"  
  
She didn't know how to answer, and so remained silent. Snape took his hand away from her lips and focussed on his bloody finger. "Well," he continued, still studying his digit, in that awful, composed tone, "we've fallen. We've-excuse me, you've-cried. Now I say we fuck."  
  
He slipped the gore covered finger into his mouth in a parody of seductiveness.  
  
Again Celeste fought and cursed him, even as he tore open her robes and his own. Somehow she discovered his wand in his robes; Snape squeezed her wrist and slammed her arm violently against the stones. The pain forced her to drop the wand and it skittered across the floor out of reach. Not only was her arm numb but her attempt earned another blow to the face.  
  
Celeste slid into half-consciousness.  
  
Vaguely she was aware of him. Her mind seemed disconnected from the rest of her, as if she were observing someone else instead of experiencing it. She watched Snape pause for a moment as he kneed open her bare legs, heard him mutter-  
  
"Menstruating . . . that makes things more interesting, doesn't it, dearest?"  
  
-felt the pressure of him on her, in her. At that moment even her mind turned away.  
  
She drifted back as he finished. She felt dull and cold.  
  
"Thank you so very much, Celeste," he was saying. "Now one more thing before I go."  
  
Snape sat up and dug through the many pockets in his robe. In only a moment he found an empty small, stoppered bottle.  
  
"Perk of being a potions' master," he informed her, again in a normal voice. "You always have supplies."  
  
He leaned over her once more, and spread her thighs with a simple touch. She didn't see any point in resistance. She felt Snape's fingers ease into her, drawing out the wet discharge even as he continued his lecture.  
  
"Can't let this go to waste. Menstrual blood and semen, mixed inside a woman's body. Very powerful ingredient and, as you can imagine, not very common."  
  
Impassively she watched him scrape his fingers off into the bottle. He repeated the act until the tiny bottle was half full.  
  
Snape came near her head again. "Again, dearest, thank you," he murmured, with a voice as gentle as a lover's. He lowered his head to her lips, and sucked the remaining dried blood from them. Celeste stared at him with semi-vacant eyes.  
  
"You're mad," she managed to mouth.  
  
Snape smiled at that. "For many years," he agreed. "For many, many years."  
  
He left her in a heap on the cold stone floor. 


End file.
